


Give and Take

by devotchka



Category: Dead or Alive (Video Games)
Genre: 2nd Person POV - Diego, Deepthroating, Fingerfucking, First Kiss, First Time Bottoming, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masochism, Romance if you squint, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, still pretty vanilla though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 03:04:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17438717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devotchka/pseuds/devotchka
Summary: “He wants clarity, guidance, an attainable purpose – the things he feels when you've erased the world around him and made it his sole focus to please.”Or: a gratuitous one-shot in which sex is had, dynamics are established, and Rig falls in love





	Give and Take

You think Rig knew he loved you before he knew that it was different. Amnesia and a sheltered life on the oil platform left him unbiased in that way, and so the first time you kiss him he is more confused about the mechanics behind returning it than he is with whether he should at all.

You’d cupped the side of his face and leaned into him, and he stayed right where he was. He wasn’t exactly throwing himself at you as you met his lips, but he was in no way backing off. When you do it again, just as softly as the first time, he grabs the front of your jacket and pulls you closer. It’s all the encouragement you need. You let your hands stray as you deepen the kiss, and his lips part obediently for your tongue.

When he pulls away it’s to tell you that he has absolutely no idea what he’s doing. You don’t mind. His transparency is endearing to you in that way.

*

For instance, he is always blunt and unashamed in saying what he wants. He tells you just how he likes to be touched, where to put your hands and mouth, until you’ve memorized all the spots that make him pant and writhe without fail.

One night your lips are at his neck, teeth biting down beside his rapid pulse, and his hips rock against your lap with need. You aren’t surprised that it doesn’t take long for him to grab at your wrist, pull your hand down in between his legs. He’s always preferred being jerked off over fucking your mouth. But he pulls you lower, bypassing that altogether, having you grab his ass instead. You’re perfectly enthusiastic about that, too.

“Please,” he breathes, and because it’s him, and you know him so well, you don’t need to ask questions. You don’t wait for the exposition. Rig is hot-headed and aggressive, just as much as you are, and he doesn’t care for waiting.

You work a finger inside him, thrusting deliberately, bearing down on his prostate as soon as you find it. When you add a second finger, slick with your spit, he rocks his hips into it. You see what might be pain in the furrow of his brow, the slight arch of his back, and you wonder if he likes that kind of gut-deep ache. It’s hardly proper lubricant.

The way he says your name convinces you that he does. You watch him, blown away by how tight and warm he is inside, and that soft, hitching moan he makes as he clamps down around you and comes.

*

One of your favorite selfish things about fooling around with Rig like this is just how much he loves to suck your cock. He gets off on it, positively moans for it, his lips tight around you and his tongue brushing against all the right spots. Really, you think, it would be a shame to not put a mouth like his to good use.

Then, there’s how quickly he learned to be good at it. There’s the way he settles those cute brown eyes on you as he leans forward all at once, taking you down to the base with ease. You try not to stroke his ego much, but you can never truly help the way it makes you gasp. He knows how skilled he is.

You remember warning him, however long ago, not to push himself too hard. Gag reflexes aren’t fun to set off, you’d insisted, and he took your lenience as a personal challenge.

Not that you’re complaining about it now.

You like to take over for him once he’s comfortable, since you can, thrusting your hips and fucking his throat with a harshness that could almost make you feel guilty… if not for those sporadic, pleased noises it forces from him.

You’ve developed a kink for watching him finger himself while you do this to him. Maybe it’s how unflinchingly he obeys you that gets you off; maybe it’s the way he sounds so defiled as he comes, helpless and muffled around you; maybe it’s just how intensely he wants to have you any way he can.

His eyes flutter shut as you talk, telling him how good he looks like this (spit soaked, legs spread wide, filthy), how badly you want to fuck him, how your cock would feel so much better than his fingers do. Throat occupied, all he can do is listen.

*

He’s on his back underneath you, and you can already feel him trembling from just your fingers before this. But you didn’t let him come then, and now he’s begging you, bringing his legs up high around your waist as you slowly, gently work your cock into him. You know he really isn’t, but he feels so small like this – worlds away from the angry and untamable Rig who once came to you looking for a fight.

It’s all in your head. Once you’ve pushed through what little resistance his body offers, after he’s adjusted to the way you move in full, deep thrusts, he’s asking for more. Harder. Fuck him like you hate him. And isn’t that what you’ve fantasized about for so long – to own him that way?

You overwhelm him, his body rocking back into the mattress under the insistent press of your hips. You muffle his sounds with your palm. He’s impossibly tight around you, doesn’t last long at all, and when he comes you move your hand so you can really hear it – a frantic, wordy string of moans and obscenities and pleas, of your name over and over. Your rhythm falters.

“You’re mine,” you say, not a question but a fact, as his legs drop from around your waist and he struggles to keep them open for you. He will ache in the morning. “You’re mine.”

When you come in him, he feels it, and he makes a sound as if you’ve violated him.

*

Sex exhausts him, and Rig passes out almost immediately. You don’t. It isn’t often that you share a bed for much longer than it takes to fuck, and it’s nice: the weight of him beside you, the steadiness of his breathing, the way he’d seemed so relaxed despite (or maybe because of) everything you’d done with him recently. You try to let his company lull you to sleep.

It doesn’t.

You catch your mind on a weird tangent, wondering if amnesiacs dream differently than other people, wondering what kind of man Rig would be if he did remember every year of his life.

You think it makes sense that he loves you. Someone like him? He has tattoos on his body he can’t even explain. He’s flying blind in a brand-new environment. He wants clarity, guidance, an attainable purpose – the things he feels when you erase the world around him and make it his sole focus to please.

You’re flying blind, too, though. Street fighting is hardly akin to stability, and in an expensive, bustling city like New York it barely pays the bills. It’s simply the best option in a sea of hard choices. Taking care of Rig is the easiest, most intuitive thing you do, because giving him what he needs doesn’t feel like an uphill battle.

Next to you, he rolls from his side onto his stomach, reaching out for you in his sleep. His arm lands squarely across your chest. Heavy. You leave it there.


End file.
